


Vice

by orphan_account



Category: Samurai Flamenco
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hazama struggles with what he cannot understand. One-sided Hazama/Goto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vice

**Author's Note:**

> …This did not go as planned and I don’t know what to do so I’ll just post and run. An alternate (and more accurate) summary is ‘Hazama gets a crush and deals with it extremely badly whoops’. 
> 
> Be sure to note the given rating. This contains graphic sexuality and some disturbing imagery (ie: gore). Spoilers until episode 9.

\---

Hazama found himself half-awake in a makeup chair while an attendant nervously hovered by his shoulder. By a tall stack of lightning equipment, Ishihara was arguing with someone with an official-looking clipboard, her frown twisting further with each passing second. Usually Ishihara’s anger would turn him into an apologetic, stuttering mess, but it was far too early in the morning for his survival instincts to kick in. Syllables drifted over as Ishihara raged, some joining to make very inappropriate phrases. If he hadn’t spent so much time around drunken salarymen and vocal middleschoolers, he might have been impressed or even shocked.

The attendant cleared her throat. “W-Would you like some coffee?”

He tried to shake his head but it came out as more of a half-nod. When she tensed as if to bolt across the room, he forced down a yawn and said, “Thank you for asking, but I’m fine. I just…haven’t quite woken up yet.”

She smiled. “Late night?”

“No, not really.” It was an honest reply. After smashing his hand against a concrete block the night before, he had taken a rare break from patrolling the streets. Flamenco Girl had “covered” for him in her usual way, the public reaction to her brutality ranging from excitement to disgust, emulation to damnation. As Ishihara continued to tear the official-looking man apart, he quietly asked, “Do you know if we’ll be starting soon?”

“Ah, well… T-There seems to have been a slightmiscommunication about the photoshoot today,” she mumbled, “and Miss Ishihara seems to be ‘addressing’ that now. H-Hopefully it won’t be too long before we can get started…”

While Ishihara was the master of his daily schedule, he had a foggy recollection of an interview at 10am and if the delay continued for much longer then that appointment was in danger of being missed. Still, there was no point in _him_ worrying about it when Ishihara was the one who “handled” things. Every time he expressed an ounce of concern over something related to his schedule, Ishihara scowled or swore or hit the brakes or tugged a little too hard on the steering wheel and slammed him against the window.

Just when he started to fish his phone out of his pocket, Ishihara stalked over with a self-satisfied smirk. She batted his hands away. “They’re fetching makeup now. Wardrobe comes after that. There’s a curtain to change behind over there,” she said, jerking her chin to the left.

“Oh.” He had completely forgotten about the changing part. Now that he had talked to the attendant, it would have been especially awkward for some reason. “Thank you, Miss Ishihara.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t mention it. Actually, what you _should_ be thanking me for is getting you out of that concept. Apparently what the magazine sent us was for another issue and so I had wardrobe trying to put you in this weird S&M gear, which is unacceptable for _obvious_ reasons.”

He nodded along while trying to piece together what S&M mean.

“Anyways,” she continued, stepping back as the makeup artist swooped in and tilted his chin back, “the new concept will be for a later issue, but it’s something that _won’t_ ruin your reputation overnight.” The tiny sponge used to apply foundation felt like the inside of his red scarf, a strange, reassuring weight pressing against his nose and chin. “We’re just doing 50 shots since we’re low on time. Make them count, Masayoshi,” she chided as a second pair of hands got to work on his flyaway hair, tugging at his bangs and smoothing down the sides. He didn’t mind photoshoots, surreal as they were, but all the preparation grated on him, his fingers clenching when a hand got too close to his face, nearing what the scarf covered. The staff liked it when he stayed still but it wasn’t discipline that kept his eyes wide open as a pencil dipped in and coloured his waterline black. It was fear-like. It was the ember his adrenaline fed.

Wardrobe entered with a rack of clothes and eventually settled on a coal grey suit with a patterned shirt. He dressed in silence, careful not to disturb the curtain. After adjusting his collar, Ishihara took him to the photographer. The shoot passed with its usual pace, his focus darting between the photographer and Ishihara lurking in the corner of the room. When 50 frames were taken, she abruptly dragged him away. He rushed out of the borrowed clothes and back into his jeans and plain sweater.

“Interview at 10,” she muttered. “We can’t be late.”

After Ishihara flew out of the parking lot, the van’s back tires skidding, he double-checked that his seatbelt was nice and tight. It should’ve been impossible to drive so fast within city limits given the red lights, pedestrians, and inevitable congestion, but, somehow, Ishihara found a way. The company van churned and rattled over cracks, bumps, and puddles. It whined, oscillated. The clothing rack bolted down in the back was empty except for some bare plastic hangers that rattled and clacked together, like the fall of Flamenco Girl’s heels, like the promise of shattered bone. The city had teeth. It left scars.

At the next studio, his makeup had to be reapplied, the familiar anxiety seizing him when his chin was pushed back, his throat bared. He followed instruction; his eyes closed then opened. He was chided for flinching at peripheral shapes, at oblong masses that morphed into fists or bats or knives. His mask was down, his helmet gone, and a single swing could crack his skull.

Imagined terror clung harder than actual terror. When a pressing, _real_ threat passed, he exhaled and waited for his adrenaline to clear. It was the logical, _rational_ , thing to do so. It made sense. But there was nothing logical, _rational_ , about seeing madness in daylight’s eye. He flinched, cowered. The hammering in his chest increased in tempo and clouded his eyes, ears, and mind, seeping in like a thick fog over a tumultuous sea, exaggerating the crisp fall of whitecaps. Foam broke against weathered stone, flecks of white darting against a blackened sky. It was hard to think, harder to breathe.

By the end of the day, he was tired. He sank into the role of Samurai Flamenco, filling the empty form with devote precision. Samurai Flamenco wore red in honour of Harakiri Sunshine and the red rangers. His actions were dictated by tradition, directed by a devote hand.

This was what he understood: a carved space, a hollow space.

\---

Admittedly, his experience with friendship was mostly secondhand.

Friendship was clasped hands, promises made and kept, and grins that cut through grim and sweat and shone all the brighter for it. It was a cloak, worn high around the shoulders and bunched up behind the neck. Goto’s name on his contact list had a peculiar slant to it, a certain unique quality that clung to the dip and rise of each character. Compared to the vibrancy of the heroes he worshipped, the phone number seemed like a small thing. His scars didn’t match Goto’s. Their friendship wasn’t secured by years of toil and respect. It was a new, delicate thing, a slender shoot rising out of the ground to test the wind.

But Hazama was devoted all the same. He remembered the inflection of Goto’s words, the way he slurred over the names of those he barely remembered and growled those he couldn’t respect. In his anger, he was enthralling, the passion rising in his voice spreading to his hands and eyes. Slowly his favorites worked their way into Hazama’s apartment, imported beer resting in his fridge and jackets two sizes too big forgotten on some table or chair. After a point he stopped noticing, stopped “making a big deal out of nothing” and let Goto’s presence linger in silence. The progression was too natural for him to resist. Sometimes he texted Goto long into the night, laughing into his hand at Goto’s dry humor, laughing just to hear the sound.

For a long time he had been fixated on how lonely he was. With a singular, desperate need, he had reached out for those around him, trying to grasp just an outline, a _shadow_ , of someone who may, possibly, potentially want to stay with him, talk, and listen. Minutes would seep into hours and then days and then suddenly, perfectly, the ache in his chest would fade and someone, that _someone_ , would reach out for him too. He had tried to be content with friendships that ran just one way. Hero worship required nothing but time and devotion, both of which he would always readily offer, but the hollow ache only grew. A precipice neared.

If he hadn’t donned the mask, hadn’t turned his outreached hands into fists, he would have fallen into a deep, gaping maw. He didn’t know what it was or where it ended, but there the shadows ran thick.

\---

He returned to the apartment, showered, and crawled into bed. Bit of eyeliner flecked the pillow. He felt hollow, bird-like.

The light from his cellphone was too bright. Goto’s latest text was short: _“meeting fri 530pm?”_

Hazama sent a shorter reply: _“y. See u._ ”

He stared at the pixilated curve of Goto’s name. The display dimmed, shadows filling in the patches of light. He closed his eyes and there was Goto in his small apartment, shirtsleeves rolled up, skin blue-grey in the dark.

\---

When Goto arrived, Hazama was busy scrubbing his wrists with soap and water. Some bubbles had dripped around the apartment during his mad dash to answer the door, but Goto was either too indifferent or too polite to say anything. Earlier that day, Ishihara had made the mistake of testing out new cologne samples on him. The overpowering musk almost made him vomit, much to her immediate disgust. While Goto blissfully ignored the soap bubbles, the cologne was a different matter.

“Woah, kid.” He plugged his nose. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“It’s for work,” Hazama muttered, scrubbing. “I didn’t wear it for you.”

Goto laughed. “Actually, it’s not _that_ bad. You should smell some of the guys that come wandering into the station. You know, those really sleazy guys that hang around the karaoke bars all night? Now those guys wear too much cologne. I wonder why they think girls like that stuff anyways…” Hazama shrugged and drained the sink. Absently, Goto continued. “Actually, don’t those guys buy all that cologne because models _like you_ sell it to them?”

He snorted. “What a cynical thing to say.”

Goto laughed, his eyes half-closed. “Is it still cynical if it’s true?”

Hazama chose not to answer that. Of course Goto was wrong, but they had only a few hours together, the time held so loosely that any distant wind could scatter it, and he knew enough about Goto and himself and _them_ to let the subject go.

While Goto’s interest in super sentai had yet to peak, he did laugh along with the more lighthearted series. Hazama didn’t mind if he talked over the dialogue or laughed inappropriately during a monologue. The cues and speeches and actions flickered behind his eyelids and echoed in his ears. Phantom muscle compelled his arms to move and jerk into rigid forms, to slash out in tandem with the red ranger, to recoil and fall as red did. Goto frequently accused him of “overacting”, his smile thin but present.

“You have way too much energy for your own good,” Goto muttered. Hazama’s cartwheel had been perfectly in synch and, unlike Goto’s last visit, he hadn’t kicked over the coffee table mid-twirl.

“Behold the Infinite Power of Justice!” he cried, pumping his fist in the air.

Although Goto grumbled about him blocking the screen and jabbed him with his foot, his smile was there, thin as it was, and Hazama found that it was far too easy to be content with simply _that_ , simply a smile and some humor and eyes that would actively seek his. After a pause, Goto turned away, his attention caught by an onscreen battle or a call or some elusive thought that chose to linger on, but Hazama wasn’t the same. Battle sound turned to static. The tips of his fingers went numb. A chill knotted in the dip of his elbow, drawing his senses inwards, his heart pounding. He was bound to the sharp curve of Goto’s jaw line, to the way his shaking hand shifted to match that curve, to the imagined press of bone under skin.

He surfaced when Goto asked another question, something about the villain’s costume. He answered on reflex and stared hard at the screen.

Goto cleared his throat. An axe swung over red’s head and shattered a stone wall, the fragments ricocheting off red’s armor. “When are you going out tonight?” he asked, the second swing grazing red’s mask, sending up a shower of sparks.

“Twenty minutes,” Hazama replied. “I should probably get my stuff ready. Do you mind?”

The silence was probably Goto shaking his head.

Hazama dashed in front of the projector and pulled the worn suit from his closet, checking the body armor underneath for any tears or broken panels that he may have overlooked. There was a strange black mark near the left side. As he picked at it, the surrounding red flecked off.

“Great. More things to fix,” he muttered, brushing the paint chips onto the floor. He was running out of sweaters that _didn’t_ have holes in them and his new shoes didn’t quite fit right. The saleswoman said they needed to be “broken in”, but he had crossed every street in the city and they still pinched his toes. Of course, the suspicious red stains on the heels probably voided the brand’s return policy. It was _paint_ , not blood, but the deep red was enough to raise a few eyebrows.

He pressed the scarf over his mouth and inhaled, tasting nothing. If he blinked, he could be anywhere, maybe bound to a steel pole with a knife dancing along the blue veins of his throat. In the next room, Goto was laughing, but if his focus shifted, if he forgot what little he knew, it could be anyone.

\---

Flamenco Girl hit a man so hard that he couldn’t speak. He retched up blood, watery in consistency and mixed with thick, desaturated yellow.

Hazama waited with him until the ambulance arrived before quietly slipping away. One of the medics said that his vigilance saved the man’s life. The other tried to get his autograph and he accidentally scrawled an ‘H’ before realizing his mistake.

Fatigue made the ground pitch and sway. He pinched his cheek to stay awake. He needed to be Samurai Flamenco still. Every scrap of litter needed to be cleared. Those wandering off crosswalks had to be corrected. People ran red lights in the dead of night. There had been an accident earlier, a twisted mass of metal and glass with a human core.

When he blinked, the weight of the goggles disappeared. He could be anywhere, perhaps even dead.

Such thoughts were dangerous to Samurai Flamenco. They placed unnecessary stress on the mold, the space he needed to fill. He employed a certain forgetfulness when he worked, feigning fatigue when his thoughts began to stray, choosing to forget all instances of doubt or fear. Samurai Flamenco was not naïve, not intentionally at least, but there was only so much an identity could bear before it cracked.

He tore through cluttered alleyways, slipped over overturned trashcans and climbed sagging fences. He ran because Samurai Flamenco was needed somewhere. He exhaled, inhaled. His vision blurred.

The laughter from a passing car sounded like Goto’s. Of course it wasn’t Goto’s, the pitch too high, but just the suggestion that it _could_ be hit like a clenched fist. He knew the sound in its entirety, every nuance and inflection and obscure, minute detail. He tore away from it, cutting behind a convenience store and losing himself in a late night crowd.

He staggered into his apartment as yellow-orange light crested over the skyline. When he closed his eyes, Goto was near.

It was far too easy to lose himself, to pretend that the hand trailing down his chest belonged to someone else. The fingers were thicker, the joints flat and broad. Something like panic seized him, but he kept still, reassured by bitten nails and the rough plane of Goto’s wide palm.

He wanted it to happen in a rush, for his mind to turn static. Goto was older and would know what to do. His hand would trail further down and slip beneath the waistband of Hazama’s jeans, knuckles tight against trembling skin. It happened in a rush, imagined breath hot on his neck, words mumbled into the hollow of his throat, amber eyes wide.

He bit his hand, stifling his cry. There was no reason to be quiet, he was alone after all, but he needed the pain. It broke over him like cold water, fingernails scrapping against teeth. His right hand was very real, suddenly warm, and slick with something wet.

\---

The Flamenco Girls managed to distract him for several weeks. Adamant on passing her “wisdom” on to her colleagues, Flamenco Diamond had effectively cloned herself and now there were _three_ mace-wielding, groin-stomping vigilantes lurking behind bars and cruising around in an armored pink Hummer. The public’s outcry had turned into amusement and soon complaints of harassment morphed into misguided fanletters. Samurai Flamenco tried to be consistent in his criticism of the girls’ methods, but found his conviction failing after his concerns were shrugged off for the umpteenth time.

After their presence simply became routine, the _feeling_ returned. It lacked subtlety, slamming into him once darkness fell. His stomach twisted into knots. A burning line drew its way down to his hips, directing his eager hand. No matter his doubts about who he was or who _Goto_ was, the man touching him was always the same. The stroke of his hand was confident, maddening in its consistency. He couldn’t sleep unless he gave in. Tangled in damp sheets, he would writhe and claw, pushing against the inevitable.

Goto’s image was behind his eyelids, his presence tangible in the dark.

\---

It was a Tuesday when Mari’s text messages unexpectedly turned bold. After a plethora of idle questions, _“whts gotos fav color??”_   or “ _do u kno his shoe size???”_ , he awoke to “ _do u kno how many girls hes slept wth?_ ” and “ _would he use handcufs in bed???_ ” and “ _what lingeree should i buuuy??”_. His initial reaction was to block her and go back to sleep.

After another three hours of sleep, he unblocked Mari and delicately reminded her that Goto _did_ have a girlfriend. Before he could put his phone down, Mari had already replied.

She called him a coward.

\---

The night air was thick with moisture, a damp heat seeping through his shirt. He hadn’t yet adjusted to the weight of his new weapons and sometimes caught himself limping or tensing strangely. They were extremely lightweight, thanks to Mr. Harazuka’s ingenuity, but they felt grafted onto his body, the stapler especially rigid. 

He did some quick stretches in the shadow of a parked delivery truck. As he cracked his neck, Goto walked by.

He cracked his neck again and stared.

It really was Goto.

Dressed in plainclothes and carrying a grocery bag filled with instant ramen, Goto continued along the sidewalk, idly tapping his cellphone’s keypad. When Hazama chased after him, he abruptly froze.

“Goto!”

After recognizing the familiar voice, he relaxed.

 “I’m not on duty tonight,” he said as Hazama matched his strides, “so _please_ tell me that you haven’t been causing trouble.”

Hazama tilted his head and innocently replied, “When have I _ever_ caused trouble?”

“You’re laughing at me under that stupid mask,” Goto grumbled. “I can tell.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“ _Yes_ you are.”

He grinned. “Well, maybe I am _now_. You take everything so seriously, Goto.”

“Well _someone_ has to,” Goto muttered, kicking an empty beer can and watching it roll across the street. He waited for Hazama to pick it up before continuing. “Are the girls out tonight?”

“I haven’t seen them yet,” he answered, grimacing as Mari’s earlier text came to mind. She had called him a coward. Standing next to Goto under the orange glow of a crooked streetlamp, he felt like one.

They parted two blocks later. Goto tried to act impassive, his dry humor thicker than usual, but Hazama knew that underneath was genuine concern.

He followed Goto home.

It hadn’t been intentional. He had simply blinked and found himself riveted to the distant shape of Goto’s shirt, the pale blue vivid against concrete grey. Every footfall was silent. He stilled the stapler’s rattle.

After some length of time he realized that there was something deeply, unforgivably _wrong_ with what he was doing. He threw himself into the nearest alleyway, tore off his glove, pulled down his mask and bit his thumb until the pain overwhelmed whatever _thing_ possessed him. He drew blood. His thoughts turned metallic.

He worked through the rest of the night in a daze, chasing the clatter of Mari’s heels and fumbling through speeches. His grandfather would have been disappointed. _He_ was disappointed.

\---

“How’d you cut yourself?”

“Excuse me?”

Ishihara reached across the desk and grabbed his hand. “What’s with the band aid? It’s not bad, is it?”

“Ah, no,” he replied, trying to loosen her iron grip.

“So what was it?” Ishihara asked, pointedly ignoring the forms they had been discussing. “Was it a knife?” Hazama stared very hard at the neatly stapled papers, hoping to divert her attention, but Ishihara only redoubled her efforts, gripping his hand tighter and repeating her question.

“It’s just a scrape,” he said, which seemed to displease her. “I’m clumsy and I… I-I don’t cook very well, so I don’t see how it would be from a knife…”

“Of course you don’t.” She released him, her fingers leaving a red imprint. “New model Hazama Masayoshi isn’t the type to play with knives. It just wouldn’t happen.” She continued to mumble softly, almost like she was trying to convince herself of something. Belatedly, he realized it was probably related to Samurai Flamenco. No matter how much evidence there was to the contrary, Ishihara couldn’t let go of the rumored connection between himself and the vigilante.

He was surprised when she told him to go home.

“Isn’t there a photoshoot scheduled for-”

“The cameraman is sick,” she replied, picking at her nails. “You’re just a distraction and I can handle these forms on my own. Congratulations on your afternoon off, Masayoshi. Don’t forget I need you here at seven tomorrow.”

He was sure to push his chair back in after he stood. Ishihara didn’t seem to notice the screech the plastic legs made on the tiled floor. The forms had her full attention.

There was always activity in the Caesar Pro offices, interns spilling hot coffee as they raced through the cubicle maze, wiry talent agents snapping into their phones. Every ringtone was shrill but different, adding layers to the cacophony. While the space wasn’t small by any means, it felt compressed and falsely intimate. The light tones of a mother doting over a young recruit mixed with the bellow of a senior agent, a fresh coffee stain marring his white shirt. It was all idle information packed too tightly together, needless without context and _suffocating_. He tried not to flinch when someone bumped his shoulder and matched the secretary’s friendly nod as he left the building.

He called Mari and was startled when she actually answered.

“ _What’s up, Masayoshi?_ ”

He cleared his throat. “H-Hello, Mari. I know this is sudden, but do you want to meet up?”

“ _Café Delight. Be there in ten minutes, okay?_ ” Before he could answer, she hung up.

The coffee shop was only three blocks from the Caesar Pro offices, which was far too convenient and made Mari’s enthusiasm even more suspicious. Just as he settled into a table in the back corner, Mari threw the door open, a wide grin splitting her face. She dropped five bulging shopping bags by her chair, kicked the one across from her out, and, much to the waiter’s chagrin, rested her feet on it.

After placing an intricate order, she turned to Hazama, her grin devilish.

“So, what’s up?”

“I had the afternoon off,” he said, “and I just thought that we…haven’t really seen each other in awhile.”

Her eyebrows rose. “I _guess_ that’s true, but I really don’t see why that’d bother you. We don’t get along, Masayoshi. I shouldn’t have to remind you of our history.”

“Of course not,” he muttered, “but that doesn’t mean that we’re strangers now.”

“We’re not friends,” she said.

“But we’re not strangers,” he replied, meeting her narrowed eyes. “That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Her grin returned, either because he had just passed one of her tests or the waiter had brought their scones. “I guess it does. But you know that I’m just using you to get at Goto, right?”

If he hadn’t received many, _many_ inappropriate texts from Mari on the subject, he might have blushed.

“I don’t know why you even bother. He has a girlfriend.”

Laughing, she replied, “So? People cheat.”

He frowned. “Goto wouldn’t.”

She only laughed harder.

“So what? Does that mean I’m just supposed to _give up_? Am I supposed to lie around and… _and_ …?” Her knee hit the underside of the table, cups and plates rattling. She snarled. “Am I supposed to just lie around and _fantasize_ when I could be out there doing something about it? Fantasizing is for cowards, Masayoshi. It’s for cowards and pathetic, _weak_ people with nothing better to do than sit around and feel sorry for themselves. It’s pathetic,” she snapped, burying her head in her hands and gripping her auburn hair. The knuckles on her left hand were bruised but not misshapen.

Mari had almost killed a man once, had left him to bleed out on the sidewalk. Hazama was afraid, deeply so, of understanding her in her entirety, but she was the only one who might understand _him_ in _his_ entirety.

“Mari, am I…?”

“What?”

He avoided her gaze.

“Do you really think that I’m a coward?” he asked.

“No,” she said plainly. “You’re even worse than that. You’re a fool.”

\---

The plastic hangers in the back of the Caesar Pro van clacked together as Ishihara braked suddenly. Horns blared and she swore.

No matter how much clothes Ishihara piled into the back of the van, there were always empty hangers. _“Wire hangers stretch clothes,”_ she had told him once. Plastic met plastic and responded with noise. The clack was Mari’s heels as she ran with a rod clasped in her hands. It was long and rounded at one end, either mace or microphone.

\---

Thursday night. Goto was on his back with his eyes screwed shut, mumbling something about a headache. The overhead lights traced a path down his throat, touching every dip and curve with unequaled reverence. Hazama’s hands itched. His mouth went dry. He was a fool.

\---

It didn’t seem right to leave the skull where it was.

Carefully he detached it from the wall and carried it into his bedroom. The present from Kaname leveled an accusing stare at him from its new place on the side table.

“You have to stay here,” Hazama said. He talked to his figurines and action figures (and himself) too often to feel silly about addressing the skull like a person. Hesitantly, he patted the top of its head and returned to the living room, shutting the door behind him.

The curtains were already closed and his phone was set for emergency calls only, which meant those from Ishihara, Goto, Kaname, Mr. Harazuka, or Mari. In hindsight, it was an irrelevant precaution since they were the only people who actually called him.

His surroundings were oddly impersonal with his figures sealed back in their cases and any dirty plates stacked in the sink. Grey and blank, the projector screen held nothing of its usual colour, its promise of action and perfected heroism. He had never worn this shirt before. His pants hung too low on his hips, the belt curled in its drawer still. The strangeness permeated his body.

In the wiring of the projector slept the potential for answers. Goto’s mouth wrapping around a clear bottle pulled on some buried part of him and made it scream. Desperately, he needed to understand _why_.

The projector whirled on. He had never watched pornography before.

A mass of writhing flesh contorted into an unknown shape greeted him, the sudden, potent display of skin burning its afterimage into his brain. Deadened nerves came alive, his consciousness appalled, frightened, and entranced as past wisps of imagination were defined, eagerly represented by 350 combined pounds of muscle, bone, skin, and cock rising and falling in a hard, fast rhythm.

He watched the video eight times before his mind overcame its shock and allowed his body to heat and react. A veined, erect cock bobbed with each of the other’s thrusts. The image’s intensity was painful, his eyes closing and snapping open as blindness only accented each wet slap and goading slur of “ _Fuck me, baby”_ or “ _Spread, slut_ ”.

He watched the video again.

If he squinted, one of the men looked like Goto.

\---

His mechanically-assisted punch broke the monster’s jaw, sending a hail of shattered teeth down onto the pavement. _“Viva Torture!”_ was gurgled rather than screamed, neon blood rising over the jagged line of its bottom teeth. The body vanished in a plume of off-grey smoke. The inside of his mask smelled like burnt hair.

The monsters struck frequently, each carrying the echo of Guillotine Gorilla’s primal scream as it cut through vertebra. A policeman’s severed head had impacted the floor like a rotten cabbage, not so much rolling as tumbling across the floor, its trail bloody.

As the public’s interest in the monster’s faded, the police were slow to respond to their appearances. He waited by the scorched pavement for twenty minutes before two patrol cars pulled up. They had mistaken the smoke for a garbage fire and were expecting to find some delinquents instead of a vigilante. The officers were strangers to him.

Neither officer asked if he was okay or questioned the way his voice shook. He was thankful for that.

Afterwards, he called Mari in hysterics. It had been an _accident_. He hadn’t meant to hit the monster so hard and cause it so much pain.

She said that it wasn’t his fault.

She was bored by him. She asked why he hadn’t called Goto.

He couldn’t respond. He didn’t know.

\---          


End file.
